


Hypothetically Speaking

by Whreflections



Series: Recombination verse [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Communication, Domestic, Feelings, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Murder Husbands, Will and Hannibal Learning to Relationship, or basically, though the angst is actually pretty minimal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 08:22:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5327258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>About a year after their fall, Will has settled into his life in Chile with Hannibal.  They hunt together; they have dogs and a house and a <i>life</i> and of course it isn't perfect, of course they fight here and there and the road ahead is a bloody, shifting mess but honestly, Will is happier than he's ever been in his life.  He's thriving, making plans for the future, and Hannibal...</p><p>Hannibal feels a little like he's living in a modified snowglobe, perched on the edge of a table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hypothetically Speaking

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a short fluff piece, just a quick variation on the whole 'how would you kill me' theme except on the topic of Will leaving. 
> 
> Nearly 7,000 words later, that definition kind of fits? XD
> 
> Seriously, though, I do really hope you guys still enjoy this verse, cause I'm kind of in love with it now, and working on a long, chaptered fic for it that I'll hopefully really have time to focus on after the holidays, and maybe a little bit before although I am also doing the Hannigram Holiday Exchange so that has to come first :D

Hannibal liked to sleep in near complete darkness; Will had learned that first in the cabin they lived in just after their fall.  It hadn’t taken him quite a week of seeing Hannibal squint with bleary hate at the light spilling in across the floor before he realized the problem and started covering the bedroom window with an extra blanket before they went to bed.  They were still at an amorphous in-between then, and Hannibal was hopped up higher on pain medication than he would have cared to admit, but when the first morning after his experiment came, Hannibal’s contented sigh as he buried his face in the crook of Will’s neck had made Will’s chest ache.  He’d slept well past dawn, and Will had learned something he probably already should have known- Hannibal was too light of a sleeper to be able to bear distraction unless he was forced to.  With his discipline over himself he probably could have _made_ himself sleep anywhere if the circumstances required it, but it certainly wasn’t his preference. 

Will had found he was getting rather fond of learning Hannibal’s preferences, all the little human details the rest of the world was never allowed to see.  He’d like to believe Bedelia hadn’t seen most of them, either.  A few, yes, certainly more than Will would have been willing to share with her or with anyone, but not near the number Will was permitted.  The prospect was soothing enough to draw the heat of fierce possession in his chest down to a low simmer. 

Still, for all his enjoyment in the knowledge and all their overlap, there were always going to be places their preferences didn’t match or even meet at perfect angles.  In Wolf Trap, Will had slept at an intersection of large windows, his shades thin so that even if he pulled them before he slept when he woke in the night he’d have at least the faint light from the moon and his clock to see his surroundings, the familiarity of his home, the presence of his dogs calm and untroubled by anything other than his harsh breathing.  He dreamed of things in the dark; he didn’t need to wake up and have to look for them. 

He’d been able to make a concession on that, with Hannibal always beside him.  No monster he’d imagined could be worse than the one in his bed, no amount of dogs or light or familiar surroundings more comforting protection than the cage of Hannibal’s arms around him.  From either direction, his earlier precautions had all been rendered unnecessary.  Sleep would likely always remain more a vague adversary than a friend, though, and Will neither needed nor wanted large amounts of it.  Just enough, decent stretches of six hours, give or take.  Even on nights where his rest was peaceful, unless they’d been up half the night he was a natural early riser, a stark contrast to Hannibal’s love of indulgence in all things. 

In their earliest days of this new life together, Will had been content more often than not to lie still in the dark and feel the rise and fall of Hannibal’s chest against him, the intimacy in the soft puff of his breath.  He still enjoyed it, but nearly a year after their rebirth he didn’t feel so greedy for it anymore.  The press of Hannibal against his chest warm and heavy with sleep was his anytime he wanted it, no less treasured but not something he had to grab at with parched thirst, either. 

He’d already been up since five; he’d seen the clock when he went to the bathroom, took the chance to let the dogs out and grab himself a drink of water.  It had probably been fifteen after or so by the time he slipped back into bed, and though he hadn’t looked it had easily been an hour at least since Hannibal had wrapped around him and gone back to sleep, his face tucked into the space between Will’s shoulder blades, breathing hot against his spine.  It was nice—sweet, even, but Will was restless and hot and the chill air of dawn was deliciously tempting.  It was still strange to associate early November with the rising warmth of spring, but he could feel it in his limbs far easier than he could wrap his mind around it.  This would be their first full summer in Chile, and he had plans.  He was going to take Hannibal hiking with him, spend hours fishing with Tommy sleeping safe in the grass beside him.  They could travel north to Santiago and hunt together, put their meat on ice in a mini fridge and fuck in a hotel room until they were both too wrung out to stand.  Sleep it off, and drive home with the windows down, wind tousling at Hannibal’s hair in a way Will loved and he hated.  He’d do it, to make Will want to lean over and kiss him, would stop him at the last minute with the assertion that he has to be careful; the cooler in the back holding cargo they can’t risk. 

Will could see it all so clearly and none of it, absolutely none of it left him with the slightest twinge of regret.  When he looked back lately, it was easier and easier to trace only the points where the two of them had intersected, where they should have merged.  He no longer missed much else.  For all its dark and twisting uncertainty, their future together was still a brighter, better thing than his past. 

The hum of anticipation made him itch.  He wasn’t going back to sleep; at this point, he wouldn’t even be doing Hannibal any favors staying in bed when he’d have a hell of a time keeping still.  Will did his best to ease toward the edge of the bed with careful, smooth motion, wasn’t surprised at all when Hannibal’s hand tightened reflexively at his hip in an attempt to haul him back.  If Will had to guess, he probably wasn’t even properly awake yet. 

Will reached down to squeeze gently at Hannibal’s wrist before he pulled his fingers off, still smiling when he slipped free and turned back only once he was out of the covers.  He pressed one knee to the bed as he leaned over to kiss Hannibal’s temple, his smile widening as Hannibal hummed a soft, questioning sound, one hand reaching until it caught Will’s elbow and tugged weakly. 

“No, I can’t sleep.  Everything’s fine, but I don’t want to keep you up.  I think I’m gonna take the girls for a run.”

He couldn’t see Hannibal’s eyes in the dark—the light of the clock was too dim, faced away, but he felt them open, their likely sightless rake across his frame.    Hannibal’s night vision was impressive, but he was barely awake.  He might pull himself together quickly, but it was never instantaneous.  Before he could gather himself up enough for articulation, Will nuzzled down the line of his cheek until he found Hannibal’s mouth.  His kiss was chaste, dry, but he let it linger. 

“Go back to sleep.  I’ll probably be back before you wake up.”  If he slept, that’d be true, but Will wasn’t going to hold his breath.  It was a nice thought, in theory.  He could come back, shower downstairs so he had a chance of not waking him with the noise, come back up half dressed and pleasantly sore and draw Hannibal out of sleep with a kiss.  Will sighed, nails scratching lightly against Hannibal’s scalp with the curl of his fingers as he drew away.  “Call if you need me.”

Not that he foresaw an emergency, or that he was entirely sure Hannibal would call if there was one.  It was more a way of reminding Hannibal he was taking the phone than anything else, a line to show his anchor to this place, a way for him to reach back if he went too far and changed his mind.  Not that he’d do anything of the sort, but in Hannibal’s mind he knew the threat loomed, ever present. 

Will scrubbed his hand over his face and reached out for his phone a little too quick, the back of his hand banging with a sharp pain against the corner of the nightstand before he snagged it.  He used the screen to guide him, dressed in shorts and a soft t-shirt and refused to turn back and meet the eyes he could feel boring into his back, their hunger insatiable.  Ivy complicated his efforts by leaving her bed to bound eagerly around his feet, tugging at his bare toes first before he could even get his socks on.  She was easier to focus on than Hannibal, though, so he let her have a soft laugh for her efforts, went to one knee to catch her neck in the crook of his arm and drag her in to kiss the top of her head.  She wriggled back almost quick enough to avoid it, pranced sideways and gave a single enthusiastic bark. 

Will silenced her quick with a hand cupped gentle but firm over the top of her muzzle, along with a soft murmur of, “That’s enough; don’t bother Hannibal.”  He never knew what to call Hannibal, when he spoke to them.  He knew what he _would_ say, but he wasn’t sure Hannibal’s tolerance extended to being named co-parent to a dog; particularly _this_ dog.  Perhaps that was an envelope to push in a few years’ time. 

“You’ve set her an impossible task.  That’s not like you.”  The voice from the bed was even but thick with sleep, laced on its surface with irritation.  Will could feel the fondness beneath—all of it for him, none whatsoever for her.  He should have minded that more than he did, but Hannibal wasn’t really talking about Ivy at all. 

Will dragged his hand up the bridge of Ivy’s noise, all the way to trace one triangle ear with a gentle squeeze before he dropped another kiss between her eyes.  He stood quickly, snagged his shoes from beside the bed.  “It’s not cruelty,” he murmured, his head cocked in a half turn.  “It’s optimism.  She’s learned a lot; she can learn this.” 

“And when she fails?” 

Will snapped his fingers to call Freya to him, locked his phone and cast the room back into darkness.  “I don’t anticipate failure.  Too defeatist.”  Will swallowed against the urge to turn around, even just long enough to light up his screen and get a look at Hannibal’s face.  “Goodnight, Hannibal.”  If he was answered, Will was out the door before he could hear it. 

*****

By the time Will finished his run, the sun had risen high enough peek over the mountains, to begin to burn away the wisps of fog that had lingered around their house in the foothills.  A quick glance at his phone told him it was 8:21, a little later than he’d expected to be, but he’d stopped halfway through to let the girls explore a copse of woods where the wildflowers were in full bloom.  It was beautiful there, peaceful, and he liked giving them a chance to run free outside of the yard.  They lived far enough out that he didn’t strictly _need_ to leash them for their outings, not now that they’d both learned to listen with decent regularity, but he did need to get them used to it.  They wouldn’t always be living here; for all he knew their next house might be in the middle of a city center.  Hannibal would like that, probably, or parts of it at the least.  The thought made Will’s chest clench, his fingers twisting on their stroke through Freya’s fur. 

After nearly a year here, he could admit with no reservations that he loved this house, as he loved their life here.  They had enough land to give them space but not enough to be a burden, were decently close to water for good fishing.  The view of the mountains from the rooftop terrace was breathtaking, their distance from town adequate to remove the worst of the light pollution.  If they lay out on it late, they could see stars for miles, their cold light spread wide like spatters of paint.  He couldn’t speak for his future desires but for the time being, he knew he’d be loathe to leave should they have to do it soon. 

In the yard Will unleashed the dogs, went to the tap against the house to add fresh water to their bowl.  They could stay out a little longer, enjoy the sun, bark at the birds.  He’d bring them in for their breakfast after he’d showered.  He left his shoes and socks on the patio so Hannibal couldn’t complain about mud on the tile in the kitchen and progressed barefoot, the cold brick soothing beneath his soles. 

In the kitchen, Hannibal was making breakfast.  Will wished he was surprised.  He mediated his sigh as he closed the door, refused to let it round his shoulders.  Hannibal would see his disappointment, undoubtedly, but he didn’t have to see all of it at once. 

From his place at the island where he stirred something in a large glass bowl, the look on Hannibal’s face as he took Will in reminded Will powerfully of Hannibal’s old office with bodies on the floor, of Florence.  Last Tuesday, when he called Hannibal to pick him up after he got lost exploring a neighborhood to the east in town that they hadn’t spent much time in.  The raw joy and adoration there was real, he knew, but that was all the more reason for it to leave him conflicted.  It seemed ungrateful of him to be anything but honored by such regard but he couldn’t help it; this hadn’t been a matter of life, death, or separation.  He’d gone for a run, not hopped a flight to another continent.  It wouldn’t be quite right to say he was _angry_ , but he wasn’t pleased.  It felt…unearned, grating.  An unwelcome reminder that for all they’d built, there was still instability between them. 

“Hello, Will.” Hannibal’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer before he tore it away, back to the bowl in his hands.  He needed to say nothing for Will to know that he’d caught Will’s frustration—it was in the curl of his arm around the bowl, the quick, sharp strokes of his spoon.  “Did you enjoy your run?” 

“We did.  The flowers are blooming, closer to the mountain.  I almost brought some home.”  He’d thought about it, felt the rich velvet of an orange petal between his fingers and imagined gathering a few for Hannibal to put on display.  Here in the kitchen, perhaps, or by his desk where he drew.  It was the sort of gesture Hannibal would have made himself, the sort he loved.  Classic, romantic, but Will had a little too much practicality in him.  They’d have been battered on the trip back, by his grip and by the wind, by time.  Wilting flowers didn’t make a good offering for anyone. 

“You’ll have to show me.  There is magnificence to wildflowers no bouquet can capture.  The most artful presentation of complementary color and form pales in comparison to the glorious freedom of a wild field, defying all structure and growing as it will.” 

Will hummed his agreement, his thoughts drifting as he crossed behind Hannibal to head to the fridge for water.  The kiss he dropped to Hannibal’s shoulder on his way past was brief, a brush of pressure so faint he must have barely felt it through his shirt.  He had no doubt it was appreciated all the same. 

He certainly didn’t lack for freedom, here; Hannibal had never tried to restrict him.  If anything, he indulged him—within their first week here he’d bought him an antique desk to tie his flies at and ordered finer equipment for it than Will would have ever dreamed of buying himself.  He had more fishing rods than he knew what to do with, all the time he wanted to seek out water to do it in.  Neither one of them worked, and Hannibal had insisted that they’d never have to.  If he wanted to spend the day outside with the dogs, he could.  If he’d rather take Hannibal to bed and keep him there, he met only enthusiastic acceptance.

They’d had so few problems that it seemed petty, ridiculous to squabble about this, and yet…

Being constantly treated like an elusive, transitory creature in his own home wasn’t nothing; it _wasn’t_ , and Will couldn’t shake it. 

Will drained his glass, left it on the back counter out of Hannibal’s way before he meandered over to lean next to Hannibal as he worked, his eyes flicking between their hands— his own loosely linked together above the marble, Hannibal’s still stirring.  Now that he was close, it looked like the makings of pancake batter.  They hadn’t had pancakes in an age, but Hannibal had bought blackberries just two days ago, fresh and ripe.  Will’s favorite fruit, since he was a child.  He’d told Hannibal as much not long ago, rambling about the coming of spring and blackberry winter, whether it applied here, whether this summer he might plant some bushes of their own out back beyond the fence. 

The vague sharpness that had pressed behind his teeth gentled, and Will sighed, let his hands droop until his knuckles brushed the counter.  “Your pancakes are good enough on their own; I can’t imagine how good these’ll be.  I can’t remember the last time I had blackberry pancakes.”  Well, he could, but he’d rather not, and he certainly had no intentions of mentioning it.  He’d made them himself, then, for Molly and Walter.  Will batted the memory away, and it went with gratifying ease. 

“Yet you seem more troubled than pleased.”  His tone was so light, so careful it’d have been easy to miss the current of petulance from most angles.  Like a cat perched skillfully on a ledge, their violently twitching tail draping down and back, out of sight. 

“I’m not _dis_ pleased.”  A lie, but a small one.  “I just thought I’d come back and jump in the shower before I woke you up.”

“And I thought to have your breakfast in progress before you came home tired from your run, but if—“

“Don’t do that.”  Will pushed himself up, grabbed reflexively at Hannibal’s arm though there was no motion there he was trying to stop; all the momentum had been in his words.  “I love it when you cook for me.  I see it for the gift it is and I never fail to appreciate that.  It doesn’t bother me that you wanted to make me breakfast, but you know that much already.”  Will squeezed at Hannibal’s arm, thumb skimming over the prominent rise of a vein.  “What _does_ bother me is your inability to rest if I’m not in the house.”

“As I’ve said more than once, you’re free to leave the house whenever you like.  I have never insinuated otherwise.”  Hannibal shoved the bowl aside, spoon sinking slowly into the batter.  In his turn toward the fridge he pulled his arm from Will’s grasp a little more decisively than the motion required. 

Will didn’t try to chase him.  “I didn’t say you had.  I’m not talking about restriction; I’m—“

“Is it so distasteful to you that I find it hard to sleep without you beside me, now?”  The hurt in his voice wounded and rankled in near equal measure, left Will biting back the urge to curse. 

“Of course it isn’t.”  As accurate and heartfelt as it was, there was an edge to his rebuttal that Will didn’t like.  He didn’t want this to escalate; he just wanted them to _talk_.  In an attempt to ease them both back he stepped forward, wrapped his arms around Hannibal’s waist from behind and held on tight.  He was sweaty from his run and Hannibal was fresh from bed; normally he’d have kept a little distance until he was clean.  Based on the contraction of Hannibal’s chest, though, he didn’t mind.  Will’s heart beat a little slower, and he kissed softly at the nape of Hannibal’s neck.  “I’m better with you there than you know.  I can understand that particular difficulty intimately, but this isn’t about you missing me, Hannibal.  That’s not what keeps you awake, and it’s not what brought you down here.”

“Oh?  Enlighten me; what were my motivations?”  The tension was still thick on his words, though his hand dropped from the refrigerator door to catch Will’s wrist and hold it in place the second he moved to shift away. 

Will conceded to stay, though his back felt strung too tight as he shifted to hide his face against Hannibal’s shoulder.  The pressure against his closed eyes was grounding.  “I’m not insinuating you had an ulterior motive to make me breakfast; I’m saying I don’t like the reason you couldn’t just go back to sleep like I know you’d have done if I’d stayed.”  Will swallowed, pressed his forehead harder against Hannibal and pushed on before he could be interrupted.  “I don’t like that you still don’t trust me.” 

After a split second’s hesitation, Hannibal pulled out of his hold with surprising fluidity.  Will let him go with only a slight slow drag of his hand against Hannibal’s waist, felt cold in his absence.  Rather than answer Hannibal busied himself gathering the carton of blackberries out of the refrigerator, and Will gave him his space, backed up all the way to lean against the counter.  His palms pressed hard enough to the edge to hurt, a distraction from the pound of his heart in his throat. 

“An interesting concept, trust.”  Hannibal’s silence had held until he was scattering berries into his batter, folding them gently in with skillful twists of his wrist.  If the conversation at hand had been a little less consuming, Will’s mouth would have gone dry watching him.  “Often linked to forgiveness, though in truth it is not only possible but common to have one without the other.” 

Will’s concession was in the tilt of his head, the slight release of tension from his arms.  Hannibal didn’t look up at him properly, but he’d been seen.  He could feel it. 

“I gave you forgiveness in my kitchen, and again in the cabin.  You gave it to me in Palermo, but much has come between then and now.  Which do I have from you, Will?”  Hannibal’s eye contact was sudden enough to be startling, rapt and searching.  It was hard to hold, would have cut him if he’d let it go.  “Or is it neither, or both?” 

Will’s throat worked, his lips parted seconds at least before he blinked, and began.  “I forgave you before I ever went to Jack with my plan.  That was a forgone conclusion.  It always is.”  Every goddamn time, even when he hadn’t wanted it to be.  Especially then, it seemed.  Forgiveness could be an insidious, bitter thing, as full of shades of darkness and light as everything else.  Will shifted closer, repressed the urge to reach out and trace Hannibal’s arm again.  He needed Hannibal’s focus on his words, not his fingers.  “I trust that there is nothing short of death that could take you from me, and I trust that you’ll avoid that so long as you can.  Beyond that…I trust my knowledge about you; I trust that I see you clearly now, all final restrictions removed.  I know what you are, and—“  His voice dropped, earnest and low.  The urge to feel Hannibal under his hand was too much and he bowed to it, stepped in close and curved his hand against Hannibal’s throat.  “—I welcome you in your entirety.  I’m not withholding anything from you anymore; you’re as deep under my skin as anyone could get and I don’t want you out.  Is that trust, Dr. Lecter?  Or is it something else?” 

Hannibal stilled, his lean into Will’s hand so faint the pressure was barely perceptible.  With his head tilted down, Will could feel his breath skate along the inside of his arm, feel his throat shift and vibrate beneath his palm as he swallowed, and answered.  “Something else, I’d wager, but appreciated all the same.  A variation, perhaps.” 

“A close enough one for you to start to learn I’m not going to leave you like that?”

“If not like that, how would you do it?” 

Will’s sigh of exasperation came so quick it almost covered the smooth, even tone of Hannibal’s questioning.  “Semantics; you know that’s not what I meant.” 

Hannibal’s head dipped and turned to kiss Will’s wrist, soft and somehow beseeching despite its subtlety.  “Humor me.  Hypothetically speaking, were you to leave, how would you do it?” 

Clearly, there’d be no ending this conversation until he answered, gave Hannibal something he could squirrel away in that vast mind palace of his.  A checklist pinned to the inside of a frequently locked door, _Warning Signs Will is About to Leave You_ written at the top in perfect calligraphy. 

It wouldn’t have been appropriate to smile at that exact moment, so Will refrained, hid the urge in a show of resignation.  He drew his hand away from Hannibal to cross his arms against his chest, leaned heavily against the counter just close enough that if Hannibal kept working, their arms would almost touch.  Will’s head tilted back, eyes squinting at the ceiling as if in search of a buried plan that required great concentration.  He was fortunate it didn’t; Hannibal was an impossible distraction.  Even withheld under his relatively cool exterior, for Will his anxiety was palpable, so thick it coated his throat when he opened his mouth to exhale and begin. 

“I wouldn’t leave you in our bed waiting for me.  That’s cruel, distanced, a response to infidelity not infuriation or sudden detachment, and you and I both know you’d never be unfaithful.” 

“Never.”  Hannibal’s voice was small, but clear, a little breathless.  He’d given up stirring the batter in favor of watching; Will could feel himself being studied with painful intensity. 

“I’d have planned extensively.  I wouldn’t leave the dogs, and they’re a complication.  I’d need a large enough car, new plates.  A boat, if I planned to go north.  It’d depend on circumstance, the time of year, the weather.  It’d be easier to disappear in Mexico than Brazil so it might be the best bet from the standpoint of anonymity.  Of course, if the bureau were onto us, that’d change everything.  I’d need to have laid out a new identity ahead of time, make a quick exit by car and put distance on the trail to make sure it was cold by the time I left the continent.” 

Hannibal’s hum was light, non-committal, his mind hovering between their kitchen and the church at Palermo.  They’d shared that room for ages, now, long before they were lovers.  It was nothing for Will to find him in it, nothing to mirror the position there he held outside it—back to the wall, Hannibal to his left but facing him, neither of them looking at each other at the same time.  He could see the candlelight on Hannibal’s skin, gold and flickering against the white of his knuckles.  He wasn’t the type to light a candle in supplication, only in mourning. 

Will resisted the urge to take his hand, and the urge to sigh.  Neither would help him finish. 

“If they were coming, I’d consider leaving something for them to find.  A final statement, a piece of art to welcome them, remind them that the choices I made in leaving were mine.”

“Your canvas for this farewell painting—“

“Wouldn’t be you; don’t get ideas.  You asked me to do this, so let me finish.” 

Hannibal’s answering nod was tight, quick, his breath slow and deliberate when Will shifted to put his palm to the counter edge again, their hands touching in a single press along the side.  His fingers twitched once, though if he’d meant to take Will’s hand he caught himself before he followed through on it.  

“If they didn’t know, leaving would be simpler, and harder.  We have a life here.  It’d be hard to decide what to take, but I’d pack light.  A few clothes, nondescript for traveling purposes.  All my passports.  That wood carving from our first here in Temuco.  The knife you bought me in Nicaragua.  My key from Alabama.”  Sentimental details, maybe, but honest ones.  He might not be a romantic on Hannibal’s scale, but he had enough of it in him to want to keep certain pieces.  A behavioral analyst could have called them trophies, as it were, tokens of moments of import, of increased possession. 

The ratty hotel room in Alabama hadn’t been their first time, but it _had_ been the first time they took a room with the new intent of properly sharing it.  They’d shared a bed at the cabin out of necessity, nominally, continued for warmth and nearness even after Will had grown well enough to sleep on the couch.  At the beginning of their evasive loop south while they finished mending before settling Bedelia’s debt, Will had made an attempt to separate, if only a little.  Two beds, used sleeplessly the first night.  At their next stop, he’d slipped into Hannibal’s.  At the next, Hannibal booked a room too expensive, too risky, but he dressed fit for dinner for the first time in ages and Will stopped him before he could ever suggest making it out the door. 

Will loved the memory he held of that place, of the power he’d felt in knowing that he could make Hannibal Lecter forgo whatever plans he’d had with so little.  A single heated kiss, the tug of his hands at the hem of Hannibal’s shirt, a declaration of want breathed against his ear.  Hannibal had folded for him so readily, so beautifully.  He’d been stunning then, stunning after, too, as he sipped champagne naked and less dignified than he might have wanted to believe with his hair a wreck from Will’s fingers, his neck and shoulders bitten and bruised. 

He’d keep that memory locked close forever, and still between the two Alabama was his favorite for the sheer illicit joy he’d felt from the moment they pulled off the road, for the way his heart had beat quick but fearless when Hannibal had pushed him up against their motel room door to kiss him, like they were lovers only now returned to each other from long separation.  He hadn’t realized until that moment quite how true it was—the steps they’d taken after the cliff were new, but their dance had continued unbroken from breakfast in a not so dissimilar hotel room all the way to where they were then. 

The place was dingy but not decrepit, off an old highway.  The newness of their final consummation overlaid their every action, their bodies drawn to each other with even greater magnetism than they had been already ever since Minnesota.  The man at the desk had fought his revulsion when they asked for a single bed, and Will had curled his arm around Hannibal’s waist, made a point of stealing a kiss under the pretense of believing the man occupied with his computer.  He could feel Hannibal’s heartbeat stutter beneath his palm, startled, wildly pleased to have been claimed so openly by the only one he’d ever have allowed such freedom to.

Hannibal used the phrase more liberally in general than Will did, but they’d made love in that place.  He could recall every aspect of that night if he drew it to the surface—the arch of Hannibal’s already mottled neck as he bared it, the ragged hitch in his cry as Will marked him again, Hannibal’s hands in his as Will rode him.  He had learned there the way Hannibal would shudder if Will moaned his name, did it again and again because he could, because it was a word he’d withheld too long.  It was on his lips the second time he came, and he’d felt the tears that brought against the hollow of his throat, hooked his arm around Hannibal’s shoulders and held him there until they passed.  They slept only after dawn, left with Will’s key tucked into his back pocket, Hannibal’s in their bag in the trunk.  They hit the road exhausted, but Will remembered laughter and the sting of sunlight, the taste of bad coffee and the way Hannibal had scrunched his nose when he caught the flavor of it in Will’s kiss. 

It was too easy, sometimes, for Will to lose himself in memory, to catch on a moment and slide back through it like a trapdoor with soundless hinges.  With memories as good as those he wouldn’t have minded but for the sudden douse of cold reality in the form of Hannibal’s stillness, the pained lines at the corners of his eyes, the shallow cadence of his breath.  The reference had drawn his memories to the surface too, it seemed, but given the context they were no comfort, more barb than balm. 

Jesus, he was terrible at this.  Sometimes, he couldn’t help but wonder if they’d grown too adept at hurting each other to ever fully progress past the inclination, no matter how they wanted to, if the instinct to wound with subtlety had become ingrained.  Will quelled the thought with fervent force, reached out to card his hand through Hannibal’s hair. 

Hannibal permitted the caress but made no move into it, offered only the close of his eyes and the murmur of Will’s name when Will’s hand stopped at the nape of his neck.  They’d played at hypotheticals a dozen times, more, but for all his talk of killing Hannibal with his hands it was _this_ one he felt had gone too far, broken constraints of fair play without ever intending to.  It hadn’t seemed so torturous when the idea had popped into his head a moment after Hannibal had asked, but that was easy to say from his perspective, with the end firmly established in his mind.  Hannibal held no such luxury, and a great deal more fear on this issue, if on virtually no other. 

Will made to move closer, eager to pull Hannibal into his arms and put this experiment to an end.  “Hannibal—“

“You haven’t finished.  How would you make your exit, if not when I was sleeping?”  The bitterness there was scraped thin, flaking and brittle with hurt. 

Will’s hand flexed, his nails biting into tender skin.  “After dinner.  If we had the time, I’d want to use the kitchen one last time, to eat with you at our table.  I’d want to take you upstairs and have you on the terrace, if it was warm enough—“  Hannibal’s breath felt too labored, and Will squeezed hard against it, commanding attention.  “—and after, I’d ask you if we could keep this place to come back to, after we’d spent some time away.”  Will breathed deep, made sure his voice was strong, shook Hannibal lightly to make sure he heard.  “I’d ask you to tell me again where we going, what you’d want to show me when we got there, and when we were both ready, we’d leave together.” 

Hannibal’s eyes were breathtakingly open in his first moment of shock, confusion and hesitant ecstasy mingled in near equal proportions.  His tongue flicked out to wet his mouth, frozen and barely parted for just long enough that Will wondered if he’d actually managed to leave Hannibal speechless. 

“The point of the exercise—“  His voice was even, though Will could hear its fragility.  Had he not, he’d still be having none of it. 

“The _exercise_ was bullshit, based on false assumptions I wanted to correct.  I can’t tell you how I’d leave you when I have no intention—“

“Your abilities negate the need for intention.”  Even now, arguing a point he clearly didn’t _really_ want to win, Hannibal could speak with such earnest articulation.  “Even _if_ you truly never intend to leave, I know it to be well within your capabilities to imagine how you would do it.” 

Will shrugged, let go of Hannibal only to spread his hands wide.  “Fine; I could.  I still won’t, but sure, I could.  I can imagine a lot of things, Hannibal; like you said yourself, that doesn’t mean I’d do them.  If you want an imaginary tragic exit so you can draw another incarnation of me dying in your arms you’re going to have to come up with it yourself.”  Again, his voice had gone sharper than he’d meant it to.  Will offered the spread of his palms, lower, conciliatory.  “Look, I agree that statistically, this ends bloody no matter what we do in between, but I don’t believe that has to be because we turn on each other like rabid dogs.”  Well, he didn’t currently believe it, at least.  He’d be lying to say the prospect had never crossed his mind.  “I _choose_ not to believe it; we can do better than that.  We _are_ doing better than that—I’m happy here, aren’t you?”

The twitch at the corner of Hannibal’s mouth was slight, but present.  “That’s not a question you have to ask.” 

“Then show me it isn’t.”  Will tugged at Hannibal’s wrist, breathed deep in relief when the rigid line of Hannibal’s arm shifted to let him in.  It curved strong and warm around his waist, a gentle hold that only tightened when Will’s hands came up to frame his face, tipping his jaw, tugging lightly at his hair.  “This isn’t broken.  You don’t have to stare at me waiting for me to fall.  You’re usually better than I am at living in the moment; I know death doesn’t frighten you so—“

“Death is oblivion, or transformation to either a state of bliss or torment; each could be true and none are worth worrying about.  In contrast, losing you bears consequences I already know intimately, and would readily welcome death to avoid. “  Hannibal’s eyes were half lidded, dark, a low, soft sound slipping from his throat as he brushed his cheek against Will’s.  “Can you deny that my apprehension is well rooted when you have cultivated it yourself?” 

“No, but I _can_ deny any further cultivation.”  He took Hannibal’s mouth in the ghost of a kiss, lips brushing staggered and brief, an exchange of breath with a hint of teeth.  “I can prove my intentions, if you let me.” 

Hannibal’s hand slipped beneath his shirt, pressed wide at the small of his back, his right rising to tangle into Will’s curls as he kissed him.  Properly, deep, so slow Will’s lungs burned before he had a chance to breathe.  He murmured against the corner of Will’s mouth, uneven, his accent heavy.  “It is almost universally far easier to condition fear responses than it is to reverse them.”

“I’ve got time.  I don’t need it to be easy, just possible.  Can you give me that?”  Hannibal’s forehead came to rest against his, a steadying point of connection, and all the answer he needed.  Will could feel the release of tension from the base of his neck all the way down his spine, through to arms that shifted to drape with greater ease and less grapsing around Hannibal’s neck.  “Do you want to finish breakfast, or can I take you into the shower with me and back to bed now?”

Hannibal’s hand kneaded at the back of his neck, a lazy yet skilled massage.  “The batter should have been used immediately.  I’d have to start over.”  He hesitated, nudged lightly at Will’s cheek with the tip of his nose.  “I can, if you like.  It could be ready by the time you finished your shower.”

He would, absolutely, but that particular need wasn’t pressing.  Hunger was strictly physical; his hierarchy of needs had readjusted sometime in the last five years.  Will shook his head, his grip tightening.  “We can do it later.”

“Breakfast for dinner?”

“Breakfast whenever the hell we get out of bed was more what I had in mind, honestly.”

Hannibal’s laughter was rich, emanating from his chest, a roll like a wave with a vibration that reached into Will’s bones everywhere they touched and drew him back to the source right along with it. 


End file.
